


Fight me!

by GingerFrenchie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arya is a troubled teen, Eventual Smut, Everyone Is Alive, F/M, Teacher/Student Roleplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-27 02:35:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21111269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerFrenchie/pseuds/GingerFrenchie
Summary: The fic where everyone is alive and happy. Except for Arya, who's just alive, and not enough to her own taste.





	Fight me!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again. oops

It was common knowledge that the Starks were one of the most affluent families in the north of Westeros.

Ned, the father, was head of an important company. He was the very cliché of the successful business man. Severe, upright and cold looking. In front of his children and his wife though, he was caring, quiet but always attentive to every of their needs, and present whenever he could.

He liked his coffee boiling hot, with no sugar and no cream, and in the morning preferably accompanied by a well seasoned omelet and the newspaper.

Catelyn, his wife, was the very cliché of the stay-at-home-mother. Always an ear out to catch a dispute between her children and put an end to it, or a sniffling nose and run with a eucalyptus-scented tissue. She looked younger than she was with her long auburn hair. She always wore an apron and soft slippers when she was at home. She liked to cook up storms for her family and watch them joyfully eat around her huge dinner table, she liked to rearrange the furniture in the living room every once in a while, and she liked to indulge in a spoonful of her children’s Nutella when none of them were watching.

Robb, their eldest son, was named after his Godfather (Robert Baratheon, himself head of another important company in the south of the country) after an unfortunate turn of events on a hike in the spiky mounts of the Vale, which had left his father redeemable to his old friend. Brilliant studies had made of Robb a brilliant doctor, and soon the brilliant auburn curls that he inherited from his mother would make him a spouse to Talisa Maegyr, another doctor. He was twenty six, had left the family house five years prior and lived in a country-side village named Oxcross only two hours from the family home. He had perfectly lined teeth and would probably be a great father. He liked ironed shirts that smelled of lye and almond scented hand-cream that nursed his hands, calloused from continuous washing.

Sansa, their eldest daughter, named after her grand-mother on her mother’s side, had inherited her mother’s auburn curls too, though hers were a more fiery shade of red, as well as her striking blue eyes. She was pretty, and she knew it, but that did not make her overly arrogant. She was twenty-three and she studied management in King’s Landing, in the south of the country, in hopes of later succeeding to her father in his company. In her free-time she posed as a model and made enough money to buy her own car and pay her own rent. She liked yoga, geopolitics, and lemon-flavoured biscuits dipped in breakfast tea because they reminded her of her childhood in the north.

Bran, their youngest son, was named after their ancestor King Bran the Broken, who was mostly responsible for their family’s influence in the country. He was twenty-one, and a nerd on every aspects of his life. He had never had a girlfriend, never really showed interest in having one, had only a handful of friends, as awkward as him but loyal. He spent most of his time on computers, playing The Long Night, reading pages and pages of history websites like citadelle.wes, or trying to hack every software he found for sport. He liked dim-lighted rooms, staying up all night long gaming online while sipping suspiciously colourful soda, and geeky stickers to put on his wheelchair.

And finally, Arya, their youngest daughter, named after her grand-mother on her father’s side, was nineteen, smaller than average, and looking for herself like most teens are. Which, she should be over with that phase, she often reminded herself. But she didn’t like to be a moody teen, nor did she like to be a preppy teen, so most of the time she was skating between the two looking for an end that satisfied her, and when she recalled that neither end were good for her she skated some more, mostly aimlessly. She had been aimless for quite some time now.

She had her father’s chestnut thin hair, and his grey eyes. When she was a child she used to have a long face and big teeth, that owed her the nickname horseface, which she grew into since. Her best friend was her cousin Jon, with whom she shared the rare exciting experiences of her life, like her first dive in the forbidden lake near her home-town Winterfell, her first parcour lesson, and her first cigarette. She liked spicy food, the sound of thunder, being alone, and trying new things.

Trying out new things was the only way she felt alive, and it had been quite some time now since she last felt a rush of emotion shake her from crown to sole. She missed it. Lately, her days were long and grey, and all she thought about most of the time were those past experiences and how she used to feel about them. How was she supposed to feel alive here, in the damp, cold north of Westeros? She had a wholesome family and that should be enough, she thought sometimes. Her mother was perfect, and not even the annoying kind of perfect which could have been fun to pick on. She was the actual kind of casual perfect, and so was her sister, and both her brothers, and her father was way too laid back about everything than to understand his youngest daughter’s urges to find something exciting in this place as boring as uncooked rice. She could not blame them though, and it would be selfish to complain about her situation. But it would be wrong to say she was happy, too. Every day, she missed the thrill in her belly she used to feel when she was younger, when everything had the taste of an adventure. She missed the cold sweat on her temples, the adrenaline rushing through her veins making her blood hot. That was what _life_ meant to her.

And in traditional Arya fashion, she had decided she would find a way to feel life simmer and boil inside her again. Whatever it would take to get there. So, she had recently started a list, of all the things that sounded exciting, and that could buzz her a little and make her feel not so boring. It only had a few tasks on it for now, but it grew by the day. The first was jumping from the ruins of the Red Keep into the Narrow Sea, when she’d go on holiday in King’s Landing like they did every year. The second was sneaking in the old dragon’s pit at night when the cops and the tourists would be gone, and dig in the dirt to find a dragon’s bone. The third was tasting one of those Astapori fiery nems that people make a challenge of eating on the internet. The fourth was loosing her virginity.

The list went on and on, and she had only started it two days ago. But she was definitely settled on completing it. She would do anything, anything to be the person she was before, when everything was not so… _bland_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bran is older than Arya here, as you may have read. And Rickon doesn’t exist. Sorry.


End file.
